Down by a butcher's stall, a big man with a stained apron yelled, "Meat, get your meat!"
Finn stopped, leaning against a post and listened, catching the man's deep shout, rough from years of shouting.
"Meat, get your meat," Finn tried it softly so no one could hear him. It's too high, so he dropped it, growling, "Get your meat!" Perfect, like he'd been carving pigs himself. He grinned, moving on with pebble flipping quickly.
A woman bartered nearby with a high voice; "Two shillings, no more!" Finn echoed it, "Two shillings," It came crisp and pushy, but nailing her snap on the second try.
His power worked as he grabbed every sound, and he felt bigger, like he could blend into this place and talk its talk.
Further along, near a pub spilling drunks even this early, he caught a man muttering to himself with a bitter voice. "They took it all, my last penny." Finn slowed and watched the guy stumble, and tried it, "Took it all." Too clear, so he slurred it. "They took it all, my last penny." So exact it gave him chills, like he'd lived the man's loss.
He kept walking while snatching more; a cart driver's curse, "Damn horse, move!" a kid's taunt, "Run home, coward!", each voice sticking like glue. He practiced their walks too, copying the driver's heavy lean, the kid's cocky skip, storing them like weapons for later.
Then he heard it; an angry shout from a side street by the canal. Finn's heart jumped. A fight, he thought, the show's brawls flashing in his head, all fists and blood, though no razors yet. He jogged toward it and found a knot of men circling two fighters in a muddy patch.
One was broad, his face red, and he was swinging with wild punches; the other was lean with a busted nose, and was dancing back and jabbing fast.
Finn slid behind a stack of crates with his eyes locked on them, and his hyper-learning kicking in. He watched Red Face's swing, his arm looping wide and mimicked it in place slowly, feeling the weight.
"You're mine!" Red Face yelled with his raw voice.
Finn whispered, "You're mine," matching the growl and storing it in.
Lean Guy dodged and landed a quick hook, and Finn copied his stance with his knees bent, rocking on his heels like he was in the ring.
"Come on, you bastard!" Lean yelled, and Finn echoed the same, "Come on," so perfect it felt like his own fight. He watched every move; Red's stumble and Lean's jab, and mimicked them.
The crowd roared with coins clinking as bets passed, and Finn's buzz grew. This is it he thought, this is Small Heath. The fight ended fast as Red hit the mud and Lean spat and walked off, and Finn slipped away practicing Lean's hook.
"I could do that," he said in a low voice, but Elliot's caution nagged; You're 14, not them.
He kept moving, his eyes peeled for more trouble. Past a row of shops, he caught another scuffle. This time it was smaller and quieter, near an alley's entry.
Three men, one in a patched coat cornering a younger lad, maybe 16 with a bloody lip. "Give it up," Patched Coat said with a mean voice, shoving the lad against a wall.
Finn ducked behind a barrel with his heart pounding, Season 1's stakes ringing; Kimber's goons shook down locals like this, didn't they?
He memorized Patched Coat's voice, "Give it up," trying it soft, "Give it up," exact on the first go.
The lad handed over coins, and Patched Coat slapped him lightly as a warning. Finn copied the slap's motion slowly in the air, feeling its snap in his head.
"You're lucky," Patched Coat said while turning away, and Finn said the same, "You're lucky," nailing the threat.
He watched their walks; Patched Coat's slow swagger and the others' quick steps, and tried it, shifting his weight like he could scare someone too.
The lad ran and the men laughed fading into the street. Finn stayed put, breathing hard and thinking That's power, not just fists but fear. He practiced Patched Coat's "Give it up" again with a cold voice and added his swagger, feeling bigger, closer to Tommy's ice.
But Finn's hands shook as fear creeped in; What if they'd caught me watching? But Elliot pushed back, for Kimber's out there and I'm learning for it.
He wandered longer, snatching more voices; a blacksmith's boom, "Iron's ready!" a girl's giggle, "Not a chance!", and walks like a punter's drunk sway or a vendor's stiff lean.
Small Heath was alive as every corner was a lesson, and Finn soaked it up.
He tested Red Face's swing again, air-punching by a quiet wall, then Lean's dodge weaving like he could slip any hit. His boots were caked in mud, cap soaked from a drizzle starting up but he didn't care as he was building something piece by piece, for the war he knew was coming.
Dusk had settled by the time he reached the house. Finn slowed, his chest tight with a mix of nerves and adrenaline.
The street was quieter now, just a few kids kicking stones and a dog howling somewhere far. He leaned against a lamppost catching his breath, and tried Tommy's voice again, "Help John."
It felt stronger now, layered with Patched Coat's menace and Lean's snap.
"I'm getting there," he said with Finn's accent but Elliot's fire while flipping his pebble fast. He pictured Tommy's stare and Polly's steel, and the real and wild fights he'd seen.
"You're all tough," he muttered, "but I'm learning faster." His grin flickered though, as the drizzle turned to rain that's cold on his neck.
Small Heath wasn't a game, not like Netflix. It was raw, and he was just a kid chasing giants with a trick he barely understood.